Focusing

SeasonsIt really is about focus.

Elsa shuffled her walker to the nursing home patio every afternoon unless her ankles were too swollen to allow shuffling.

“Have you seen the baby birds? ” Her face brightened as she looked to the ceiling of the patio. “There are four or five babies up there. I watch the mother ad father bringing food every day.”

She settled on a bench with a grunt and then craned her neck. “This is the second family this summer. I watched when the first babies finally flew away. They were almost bigger than the nest.”

Elsa rearranged her walker and leaned onto the top. “I come out here every day to check on them. These new babies ought to start flying before winter.”

Elsa’s legs were stiff and swollen enough she couldn’t tuck her feet under the bench. She ignored that.

“The father of that bird family helps with all the feeding. He’s as busy as the mother.” Elsa glanced at us. “I love watching these birds.”

I don’t know what causes Elsa’s swollen ankles. I don’t know why she shuffles along with a walker. I think she’d tell me if I asked.

I don’t ask.

It is about focus. Mine, a little bit, but mostly, hers.

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